Red Cliff
by Anastasya Debbie
Summary: The sunlight flashes upon the metallic cold surface. Cold. Just like the fingers that holds its platinum chain loosely. And the man's eyes too, if you look into the depth of those dark green eyes. Past!USUK, Onesided!USUK.


**Disclaimer:** I own Hetalia! Shit, I got sued.

**Warning:** Onesided!USUK, Past!USUK, AmericaxVietnam, Angst, Character Death, Suicide, OOC, English Grammar abuse, fail try to use proper English, another Arthur abuse. 8D

**A/N:** So Debbie, you wrote a new fic? I see... How many drafts are there in your laptop? 10? Hooo... And then you decided to write a brand new one? Oh, no, girl. No. The fact that you wrote this while in the dermatologist's waiting room is not an excuse. And seriously, another angst? Another character's death? And another one with Iggy as the victim? Are you a sadist or what? I thought that you love Arthur? Oooh, you sadist. You love seeing your favourite characters cry? How could you! Oh, no, young miss! I'm not done with you yet! Get back here! Hey!

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The sunlight flashes upon the metallic cold surface. Cold. Just like the fingers that holds its platinum chain loosely. And the man's eyes too, if you look into the depth of those dark green eyes. His lips are set in a thin line, his thumb ghosted upon the heart-shaped locket while those impossibly green eyes of his stares at the thing with unreadable expression.

And it was really, really hot outside. The sun's scorching hot on the sandy surface of the rock mountains.

And red as long as the eyes can see.

But no, Arthur Kirkland did not come to this dessert to marvel at its beauty. Definitely not. It's too hot to survive, too dry and dusty to breath, and definitely nothing to look at but red.

Red and lines of rocks. Red rocks.

The last times Arthur Kirkland came here was because of a certain American. Only because of him, his stubbornness, his stupidity, his smile that shines exactly like a sunshine, that endearing spirit and stupidity of his... Because of the huge face-splitting grin that would smear across his face, the wind-blown blonde hair that shines gold under the blindingly bright sun, that boisterous laugh that would erupt from time to time and the howls of excitement from the anticipation of an adventure.

But this time there's no hamburger-devouring American beside him.

In fact, there are no human beings for at least hundreds of miles from his sleek, black car. Only red. Red and rocks. Red rocks. Red rocks everywhere.

And Arthur. Inside his black SUV that he has bought with his hard earned money. With the air conditioner blaring cold as mechanically possible; thin, pale fingers playing with a thin, fragile chain that holds a heart-shaped platinum locket.

It was a gift.

By whom? ... A certain American. But we're currently in America! There's got to be billions af Americans in this land! ...

... His name was Alfred.

And he was boisterous, annoying, loud as hell, over confident, hero-crazed, hyperactive. He's a 10 year old trapped in the body of a 19. He's your typical American. Eats junk food all the time, play games as if his life depends on it, talks when he eats, has no sense of his surrounding, and no sense of proper etiquette.

He was Arthur Kirkland's sweetheart.

He was. For 8 years. And never even once had Arthur think of leaving him. No matter how much of an annoying, American git he is. He loves him with all his heart. And no doubt has ever crossed his mind that the other might think of him otherwise for at least these past 3 years.

But now, it's all ended.

Why hadn't he thought of it before? Why hadn't he question it when the American began to miss out their dates for petty reasons? Why hadn't he suspy the man when his azure eyes seemed to lit up at the mention of that new Vietnamese girl? Why didn't he notice that those azure eyes has lost it's warm, loving twinkle and that his hugs has lost its protective warmth?

And now, it's all ended.

Alfred's somewhere in the city. Laughing and kissing a girl that he loves. Maybe playing in the theme park where the both of them used to play when they were still together. Maybe he'll also shag his new girlfriend when his date ended. In a hotel room he has reserved, with incensed candles and rose petals on the bed. Wine or champagne, maybe? He has always been so cheesy. 'Hollywood is a part of American culture', he once said while grinning sheepishly.

And here he is, in his car instead of Alfred's old red pick-up. The air conditioner in its maximum cold capacity instead of the windows opened to feel the rush of the sandy, hot wind. Silence instead of loud, obnoxious laughter ringing in his ears. His fingers caressing his heart-shaped locket instead of interlocked with a series of bigger, caloused fingers.

And he hates it.

He furrowed his thick brows, and a look of hurt crosses his face. The creases between his brows deepened as his eyes caught the reflection of his face on the shiny surface of the locket. He tried to mask his expression, maybe even trying to dull his raging, aching emotion. But it didn't work at all. Instead, his sight starts to get blurry and the corner of his lips trembles slightly. Water began to drop down the corner of his eyes, creating a small stream down his cheeks. He bit his lips in order to try toning down the stream, but his eyes decided to flow his sorrow away in the form of a tiny river.

And then he cried.

His fists clenched the necklace tight, and he drew it to his temple. Small, repressed sobs escaped the Englishman's full lips, shaking his lithe body slightly. It goes on like that for hours. His brilliant green eyes raining out all the sorrow, all the hurt he has contained within himself for weeks. All the love that has been broken, all memories of his lovely childhood with him that now feels like millions needles which stings his heart and made it bleed. He drew his knees up, and hugged it to his chest. Because he feels like he could break down anytime. It hurts so, so much that he feels as if that hole on his chest will eat him alive.

Then again, the idea of being eaten alive might not be so bad if he can escape this ache.

Because he has lost something. A part of him. A part of his childhood, a part of his heart, a part of his live. Because he has been with the American long enough that he has become a part of him. A part that now drives him into nothing but this sobbing mess.

And it hurts. It hurts like hell. It hurts to look at the git grinning like that to someone else. It hurts having to hear their laughter that echoes throughout the neighbourhood. It hurts knowing that he's out there, kissing and maybe shagging a girl while leaving him all alone here to rot with his wound.

All the way, that guy hadn't even bother to look back at him. To glance back from his shoulder to look at what damage he had done to the Brit. To look at what a mess he had made the Briton.

Alfred has left him, and cast him aside like nothing. He has forgotten all about him, while the Briton can't. Stupid, isn't it? To cry and ache over someone who has forgotten about him completely. To get impossibly hurt over someone who has moved on. Believe me, he had tried. He had tried times and times again to get up from that dark pithole. He tried to heave himself up, crawl with his hands and knees, force himself to be strong and get over him. But then nothing ever worked, did it?

And now here he is, crying and holding the locket tightly like a lifeline.

But then time has passed, and the sun grew slightly to the west. It's already mid-afternoon. What time? The Briton doesn't have enough strength to even look at the digital clock on his dashboard. There's simply no more tears that can flow down his slightly flushed cheeks. His tears has dried yet the pulsing pain on his chest has not ceased one bit. But at least he can dull it now. At least he can replace it with a masking emptiness for the time being. He glance back at the back seat, eyeing the single floating red balloon that is still there, thankfully not yet popping out of the sunlight's heat.

He kneels on the driver's seat, and bend down to reach the balloon. Clenching the paper white tie it was tied on, he pulls it to his side as he moves to sit down once again. His left thin, pale fingers reaches the door handle and then open it, letting the cold air out to be exchanged with dusty, hot one. He walks out of the comfortably colder car, his locket necklace in his right fist, red balloon in his left. The wind greets him immediately, together with the cry of an eagle, flying up high on the blue sky. Soaring, dividing the sky with its broad, strong wings.

His steps were soundless. Slow, steady, soundless steps on the sandy red rocks. 45, 46, 47 steps and he reaches the edge of the cliff. He just stares emptily down, not one expression crosses his face now that he has exploded with tears once. A few minutes passed, and he brings his right hand up, gazing at the heart-shaped locket. Almost mechanically, he presses the lock on the side to open it. It flipped open easily and then a sweet melody flew out. It was their song, recorded in the tiny locket with their photo inside. The song that the both of them made together because of a school assignment when they were 14.

Slowly flipping it closed, he clench his fist once again, as if hesitating for a minute. His eyes hardens with determination short after however, and he brought the balloon close then tied the necklace to it. Holding the balloon tightly in only his right fist, he started to loosen his grip. Loosen, loosen, loosen... and there it is, flying up to the sky. To the blue sky as blue as Alfred's eyes.

And he turned around.

He run. He run, run, run. Faster with each steps, jumping to avoid the rocks, slipping occasionally because of the red dust but still runs nonetheless. Run, run, run. Almost frantically as if he was afraid that something will catch him from behind. Heaving, panting. A small sob was caught in his throat, then followed by more. But he still runs, catching even more speed. Tears that he thought aren't there anymore now falls freely down his chin. Closer, closer to the other edge of the cliff, closer to where the sun is now. Closer, closer.

And he soars through the sky.

_You... won't leave me, won't you, Alfred?_

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**A/N:** Whoa, that was fail. At first, I was going to use this death scene for another plot, but meh. I wrote this because I found a fanwork where Arthur was Alfred's past lover and all. But then Alfred picked Vietnam over him (definitely AmericaxVietnam). It was fluff, and it was kind of 'die for our ship'. And I thought... no one really thought of how Arthur will feel, getting dumped like that? So here I am, writing it and finally posting it. But really. Damn, how I hope I could draw or edit photos or at least own a nice camera! This scene was (slightly) better in my head. I pictured how we can see the red balloon going up with the silhouette of a person jumping down the other side of the cliff on the background. Damn. I really hope I'm good at drawing. BUT. This is what God has gifted me with. And even though I also suck at it, I may as well accept it anyway. =A= Ignore the rant, and thanks for reading! I'm sorry I dumped this trash in this site. Try to criticize me, okay? Then maybe one day I will write something not as trashy as these. I'm not very confident... but do it anyway since I'll love you for that? I have cookies! At least I'm good at baking. And making confectionaries too. Please? Give me reviews? *puppy dog eyes*


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